Unravel
by ellabby
Summary: They were always meant to be together, no questions asked.
1. Prologue of Sorts

**Hello all! Thank you so much for the support with Summer Daze. Although a few of you requested another chapter, I think I left the characters in a good happy place. Not every story has to end with babies and marriage! Some just go on living life. Maaaaybe I might visit the idea of a sequel at some point…..maybe!**

**This story is a tad darker and much more angsty than Summer Daze. So bare with me and I hope you like it!**

_**DO NOT DO NOT SKIP THIS, IT IS VITAL TO THE STORY.**_

Prologue

IED.

Intermittent Explosive Disorder—

-Behavioral disorder characterized by extreme expressions of anger, often to the point of uncontrollable rage, that are disproportionate to the situation at hand.

-IED is a mental disturbance that is characterized by specific episodes of violent and aggressive behavior that may involve harm to others or destruction of property.

Persons with the disorder experience violent and aggressive behavior that often results in property damage and physical bodily harm to others. These intense episodes occur spontaneously, not in response to provocation. Often, individuals express extreme regret and remorse as soon as the episode is over. Usually, he/she does NOT exhibit aggressive tendencies in between episodes. Onset of IED is usually between late adolescence through mid twenties.

"_Often it is the most deserving people who_

_cannot help loving those who destroy them."_

‑Herman Hesse

NPOV

Miley and I knew we'd always be together.

There'd never been any discussions about 'being exclusive' or 'where is this going.'

Since the seventh grade, when a volleyball smacked her in the face and I'd been elected to walk her to the nurse's office, I have been hers.

More philosophical people may say our connection formed when the blood from her lip stained my hands.

True believers in fate might say that volleyball brought us together.

My answer is much more simple: it was love.

If I am certain of anything, it is that I love her and that I always will.

That is the truth I live for, the religion I cling to.

While it's true that the following series of events were unforeseen and nightmarish, they haven't changed _my _truth.

The thing is, you can't change the truth.

You can't turn it in to something else or let go of it or deny it.

It just _is_.

While all else will waver or rot, she will always be my one true thing.

Nothing she has done, nothing she will ever do can change that.

Whether I like it or not.


	2. The Beginning

Chapter One

NPOV

The accident wasn't even that bad.

Frankly, I've seen her do much worse.

"_Let me do it," I said, anxious and impatient._

"_No. You leave streaks and I'm almost done anyway," she said, not looking down from her perch on the ladder._

_I held the ladder tight, in an attempt to steady the not so steady Miley._

_It was early spring, we were washing the windows._

_I let out a loud sigh._

_Miley looked down and squeezed the soapy sponge, raining the water on my head and laughing._

"_Cute," I said, shaking the damp hair from my eyes, not taking my hands from the ladder._

_My eyes fell on the suds now trailing down her legs._

_I let one hand off the ladder and let my fingertips trail up the back of her thigh._

_She looked down over her shoulder at me and raised an eyebrow._

"_Really, Nick? Chicks in soapy water? How original," she said, feigning annoyance._

_I shrugged and put my hand back on the ladder and nodded for her to continue, then trained my eyes at her feet, so I wouldn't be tempted to stop her again._

_She leaned forward and attempted to stand on her tiptoes, but the soapy water had made the soles of her tennis shoes slippery and…it happened._

_She flew forward and I grabbed her waist before she hit the ground, but not before I heard a sickening thwack when her forehead smacked the cement window sill._

_I flipped her toward me, her face was an inch from mine._

_She stared at me for about five seconds before letting out a blood curdling scream of pain._

"_Okay, we're okay…baby, you're okay…" I whispered softly under her screams as I ran her inside and lay her on the couch._

_She had a concussion, I knew it the second I looked in her eyes and saw her mismatched pupils._

_I grabbed some ice from the freezer, but didn't bother wrapping it in anything, I just held it over the huge welt forming on her head._

"_Fuck that hurt!" she spat, clutching my wrist as I held the ice in place._

"_Are you dizzy?" I asked._

"_Hell yes I'm dizzy!"_

"_How many fingers?" I asked holding three fingers in front of her face._

"_Three. I'm fine, it just hurts," she said, and I noticed tears leaking from the corners of her eyes._

_I used the palm of my hand to wipe her tears and asked if she felt nauseous._

_She didn't._

_I asked her to move her neck, she did._

_I asked her questions, all of which she answered._

_I woke her every hour on the hour._

_I did everything I've been trained to do._

_I knew concussion procedure like the back of my hand, I treated them daily…it was mere child's play._

_She hadn't even lost consciousness._

_There was barely any blood, only a nasty scrape._

_The next morning, aside from a nasty wound and a dull headache…she was fine._

So, you see, it wouldn't have made a difference if she went to the hospital or not.

The damage was done, we just didn't know it.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two Months Later

I busted in to the bedroom, a towel barely hanging from my waist and water still dripping from my hair. I stole a quick glance at the blue, glowing numbers on the alarm clock, next to the bed.

4:42 A.M.

I was going to be late.

I grabbed a fresh pair of scrubs from the dresser, there wouldn't be time to change at the hospital. I ran the towel through my unruly wet hair, combs were useless to me, anyway.

The room was still dark, so I let my hand feel around blindly over the top of the dresser for my hospital I.D.

Some change, my keys , Miley's hand lotion—no I.D.

I hated doing it, but I flipped on the light.

I didn't want to wake Miley, she'd been so busy with work and school lately, she needed the sleep. Plus, she'd been unusually irritable the past few days, I just wanted her to rest…but I was late.

She groaned and rolled over in the bed.

I walked to the side of the bed and looked on the nightstand for the I.D.

No luck.

Despite my rush, I stopped and gazed at Miley.

Even in a sweaty, fitful sleep, she took my breath away. Her dark hair was knotted, damp with sweat and fanned out over the white pillow case. Her delicate eyebrows were knitted together and her jaw was clenched tight.

I sighed.

She'd been under stress lately, trying to work and keep up with a summer program at the graduate school, she'd been determined to graduate in the fall, taking on way too many classes.

It didn't help that I hadn't been around too often, lately.

I told myself things would be better soon, we were going through this now to get where we wanted to be. Sure, it was hard now, but we'd agreed it'd be worth it in the long run.

I couldn't help myself, so I leaned down, brushed some loose hair from her face and softly kissed her temple.

She immediately jerked her head away and snapped her eyes open, scowling up at me.

"Relax, it's just me," I said, all too aware of her nightmares.

"I know it's you," she said, but her expression didn't change.

I straightened myself and looked down at her, perplexed.

She certainly wasn't mad before we went to bed…I let it go.

"Have you seen my I.D.?" I asked her.

She sat up in the bed and glared at the clock.

"Have you seen the time?" she asked in an acid tone.

"I know, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up—"

"Well, you did," she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

It was odd, for Miley to be so hostile…without having a reason, anyway.

"I'm exhausted."

"Go back to sleep," I said.

"I'm up now," she spat.

"Okay," I said, putting my palms in the air and turning around.

I'd look for the I.D. in the living room.

Before I made it to the door, I heard a rustling, then a loud crash.

I turned back.

She had yanked the nightstand drawer out and threw it to the ground, spilling the contents everywhere.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my eyes growing wide.

Without a word, she whipped the I.D. across the room at me.

I caught it by the silver, beaded chain before it hit me in the face.

"Anything else?" she growled at me.

"No," I said, quietly.

She flopped back on the bed and closed her eyes.

I stood there, stunned for about a minute before I clicked the light off and silently walked out of the room.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I walked in to the elevator at the end of my long shift and hit the first floor button to the first floor.

It had been a long day.

I'd spent the past few months shadowing Dr. Landsport, chief of cardiology. He had taken me under his wing, letting me assist in bypass surgeries and insisting one day I would take his place as chief cardiologist.

He liked me, said I showed as much potential as he did, years ago.

It helped that my own father was chief of staff at the hospital…but whatever the reason Dr. Landsport favored me, I was grateful.

I was learning from the best.

Just as the doors were sliding together, a dainty, manicured hand shot in and stopped them.

Amber, the admittance nurse, strolled in.

"Glad I caught you, Dr. Jonas. Dr. Landsport wants to admit your heart palpitation guy…I need you to sign off on it."

"Mr. King," I said.

"Huh?"

"Heart palpitation guy…his name is Mr. King."

I understood in my chosen field it was all too easy to start turning people in to I.D. numbers or conditions, but it was important to me, important to them, that they remain individuals.

They were very real people with very real lives and histories and families.

To lose sight of that would be a direct contradiction to my job, to help people.

Amber smiled and handed me a pen and clipboard.

I sighed and scrawled my name quickly on the forms, then waited for Amber to get out so I could be on my way.

"So…how's Miley?" she asked, pleasantly enough.

"Miley's fine. Tired…busy and…I'd like to get home to her so…"

"Oh! Right. Well…I'll see you tomorrow," she said, with a small giggle.

"Right. Bye."

She walked out and the doors slid shut.

I let my back sag against the wall while I descended to the main floor.

Miley.

I hoped she'd be there when I got home, I left the house this morning more than uneasy.

I remembered the look on her face, it had been one of…rage.

Because I turned the light on?

Miley had never been one to fly off the handle about, well, anything really.

The doors dinged open and I walked out, staring at my feet to avoid making eye contact with any acquaintances. I just wanted to be home.

Finally in my car and on my way to her, I'd convinced myself it wasn't what it seemed.

She was just tired. Hell, I could understand that, _I_ was tired.

The nightstand thing could've happened to anybody. She was trying to help and yanked too hard.

Much too hard.

Then she whipped the I.D. at me.

I shook my head.

I was over analyzing, as I tended to do.

It was just a bad mood.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

At home, I walked in the front door and immediately called out for Miley.

"Kitchen," she called back and her tone seemed pleasant.

She was at the counter, chopping a tomato in to a bowl of salad.

"Hi," she greeted, smiling brightly.

She dropped the knife on the counter and held her arms out to me.

"Hey," I said, grabbing her waist and kissing her neck, then her lips.

"I missed you today," she said, her arms still wrapped tightly around my neck.

"Me too," I replied. "How way your day?"

"Eh," she released my neck. "Busy. Yours?"

"Long," I said, hoisting myself on the counter next to the salad bowl.

"Save any lives, doctor?" she winked at me, before going back to the tomato.

I snorted and picked a tomato slice from the salad.

"What's with all the food?" I asked.

"It's our turn for dinner," she said.

"Ah."

My brother Joe, and Miley and I's best friend Oliver, along with their girlfriends Blanda and Lily, rotated with Miley and I hosting weekly dinners.

The six of us were beyond lifelong friends, we were family, plain and simple.

"I'm gonna go change," I said, jumping down from the counter.

"Okay…hey, Nick?"

"Hm?"

Miley put the knife down and looked up at me, her eyes were round and anxious.

"I'm really sorry. About this morning."

"S'Ok," I shrugged.

"But, it's not," she said and her lip started to tremble.

"Miley?"

I reached out and put an arm around her neck, pulling her to me.

Abruptly, she was sobbing in to my chest, soaking my shirt with hot tears.

"Miley, it's not a big deal," I said, in to the top of her head.

I was confused. Why was she so upset about this?

"But…it is," she cried, her voice muffled by my shirt. "You didn't even do anything wrong….and I tried to _hurt _you. I'm so, so, sorry. I didn't mean it and—"

I pulled away and held her tear stained face in my hands.

"We're stressed out. We're tired. I know you didn't mean it and…honestly, an I.D. card to the face wouldn't have done much damage, anyway," I said, half smiling.

Miley gave a watery smile and sniffled.

I bought her face to mine and kissed her lips, trying to shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right.

"You alright?" I asked, using a thumb to wipe away a stray tear from her cheek.

"Yeah," she nodded. "Do, uh, do you think that maybe…maybe we don't have to mention it to anyone? I mean, I'm kind of embarrassed and ashamed of mys—"

"Of course," I said, grinning at her in what I hoped was a reassuring way…though her request surprised me for several reasons.

Why did she want to keep something so insignificant a secret?

In my mind, I'd already decided the whole incident was…nothing.

We've fought worse before.

The second thing was, Miley hid nothing from our friends.

They knew everything about everything, so why hide this…nothing?

"Hey, out of curiosity, why?" I asked.

"I told you, it's embarrassing and I don't need the teasing from Joe."

"Miley, it wasn't a big deal—"

"It was. To me. Okay?"

"Why?"

"Because…because I was awful to you and I don't even know why. I can't explain it and I can't justify it, I was just so mad—"

"People get irritable all the time. It's not like you've never snapped at me before."

"It was different. I was angry. Really angry. I…I couldn't help myself."

My heart sunk.

She looked scared.

"Miley, we—"

"Why is dinner not on the table? I'm fucking starving."

Joe walked in the kitchen, flanked by his girlfriend, one of Miley's best friends, Blanda.

Miley's eye pleaded with me and I gave a slight nod.

"What's the matter with you?" Blanda asked Miley, while she cracked open the oven to see what was cooking.

"Nothing…chopping onions," Miley said, swiping at her eyes.

Blanda raised an eyebrow and glanced back and forth between Miley and I. She didn't buy it, but it wasn't her style to pry.

Unfortunately, tenacious Lily chose that moment to walk into the kitchen with .

"I bought red," she said, skipping a greeting and holding up a bottle of wine. "You said lasagna and so I thought—why are you crying?"

Lily plunked the wine on the counter and Oliver snatched it up.

"Oh, I was cutting onions—"

"Bullshit," Lily said, her hands on her hips.

Miley's shoulder sagged and she threw me a desperate look.

"I'm just stressed out," she said, before a better lie came from my mouth.

"What happened?"

"Nothing in particular…" Miley's lie trailed off.

God, she was horrible at this.

I tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled at her.

"She's just fine," I said, with a tone of finality to Lily, not looking up from Miley.

"You guys are acting odd," Blanda said and Lily nodded in agreement.

Joe raised his eyebrows and fished around in the salad bowl, picking out a few cucumbers.

"Is she pregnant?" he asked.

"No, and why is it that whenever a chick cries you assume she's pregnant?" I asked.

"Because it's the only thing that could make _me_ cry," he shrugged.

The timer on the oven went off and the subject was dropped, though I noticed Lily kept stealing questioning glances at Miley.

Miley, for her part, was her normal self during dinner. Happy, laughing, engaging in witty conversation and well…Miley.

I knew her well enough to know when she was putting up false pretenses, and she wasn't.

At night, when we climbed in to bed, I attempted to resume the conversation that was interrupted by our friends.

"I'm over it," Miley said lightly, before curling up in to the crook of my arm. "I was overreacting about overreacting," she laughed, so genuine and true, I knew she meant it.

I kissed her lips and watched her eyes close.

I decided to write the whole thing off as a strange day as she was acting like herself again.

Looking back now, I realize I should've listened to my instincts.

But…you know what they say…hindsight is twenty/twenty.


	3. A Poetic Part

Chapter Two

Miley has always been the most beautiful, kind, compassionate person I know, which is why my family immediately embraced her as one of their own.

Which is why she was the glue that held the six of us together all these years.

Which is why none of this makes any sense.

Which is why I'd do or endure anything for her—why I'd quite literally put my life in her hands.

**Four Days Later**

I was sleeping.

Of course I was sleeping, it was 2:30 in the morning.

Something hit me hard in the stomach, knocking the breath from my lungs and causing my eyes to fly open.

I could just make out her silhouette in the dark, she was straddling me.

As ridiculous as it seems now, my first reaction was an erection, then a smile.

My hands moved to grasp her hips and I didn't even see her hand coming at me, I just felt the slap.

Hard.

"What the hell are you—"

She smacked me again, then let both of her hands slap down on my chest.

"What the fuck—" I hissed out when she dragged her nails down my skin.

She retracted them, then sunk them in again, clawing around quick and fierce.

I blindly and wildly fumbled for her wrists, finally locking them in my hands.

She thrashed around and I held her wrists tight to my chest, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

"Miley! Miley!"

"Fucking let go," she growled.

"Calm down—"

"Let go!" she shrieked and I did, afraid I was hurting her.

I pushed her off of me and sat up, then leaned over and fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand, the entire time she smacked and scratched at my back.

I gave up on the light when she started kicking at me.

"Get out! Get out!" she yelled at me, over and over, but I could barely understand her words.

I couldn't say anything…I couldn't even _move_.

I was frozen in shock.

Then, just like that, she got up.

Miley ran to the bathroom, the door slammed and I heard a loud crack, when she no doubt kicked the door.

I stared straight ahead into the blackness, listening to the sound of my pulse drumming in my ears.

What the hell just happened?

There was no more noise coming from the bathroom—running on confusion and adrenaline, my brain started to work and I got up from the bed and bounded to the bathroom door.

It was locked.

"Open it," I said, pounding my fist on it once.

Silence.

She was scaring the shit out of me.

"Open the damn door, Miley," I yelled, my tone a mixture of panic and desperation.

I heard a small, low sob.

My forehead rested on the door and I jiggled the knob.

"Dammit! Unlock the fucking door!" I shouted, the fear and confusion bubbling over.

Nothing.

"Move away from the door," I said lowly, then I kicked it in.

My eyes fell on her and my heart broke.

She was huddled in the corner, between the tub and the wall, staring at her hands in front of her face, wide eyed and breathing too fast.

I walked until I stood just over her; when she didn't move, I squatted down in front of her, but her eyes stayed trained on her hands.

My blood was dark and already dried under her fingernails.

Miley slowly raised her eyes to mine and stared at me in horror.

"Oh my God," she whispered.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I don't know," she croaked, and the tears that were brimming at her lids started to spill.

"Okay," I said, because I didn't know what else to say.

Abruptly, she flung her arms around my neck tightly.

My eyes widened and I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her up from the cold tile floor.

She was shaking and choking on her sobs, I held her tighter, not sure of what else to do.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, Nick, I didn't mean it—"

I pulled back, making her release her hold on my neck.

Miley's eyes went wide with terror and she clapped both of her hands over her mouth, she was staring at my chest.

I looked down at the ragged, open scratches and purple claw marks, dotted angrily over my flesh.

Not my biggest concern right now.

"I did that? I did that! How could I do that—"

"Were you having a nightmare?" I asked.

"No. I don't know, maybe," she cried out, on the edge of hysteria. "Look at you! Look what I've done to—"

"I'm fine," I said, pushing sweaty, tear soaked strands of hair from her face.

"I made you _bleed_, god, Nick…what the hell is the matter with me?" she asked, sounding so pleading and broken, it made my heart lurch.

I didn't know how to answer her.

"Can you tell me…exactly what you were thinking?" I asked gently.

"I just—I was so mad and, I swear, I couldn't stop. I could not make myself stop…but I can't really _remember _what I was thinking…"

I shook my head.

"You were having a nightmare," I said, sure of myself.

Miley always had nightmares, she even talked in her sleep sometimes- it was the only thing that made sense.

Miley bit her trembling lip and nodded.

I grabbed her hand and led her to the sink, then turned the faucet on.

I put her hands under the warm water, pumped some soap into my own hand, then cradled hers in mine and let the water run over us.

We stayed like that, staring at each other in the reflection of the mirror…trying to silently reassure each other.

I finally broke our gaze and looked down, flipping her hands so I get rid of the blood underneath her nails.

She clutched on to my hand when we walked quietly back to the bed.

When we lay down, she curled herself in to a ball and pushed up forcefully next to me, then clung to me fiercely, her body still shaking.

Looking back now, I see she was looking for protection—she was clinging to me in the hopes that I might be able to save her from herself.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, while my eyes were still closed, I felt Miley's lips brush lightly over my chest.

My eyes fluttered open and I put my hands on either side of her head, lifting her face.

Miley's eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks were wet with fresh tears.

"Miley—"

"Shhh. Please…just…let me love you," she whispered.

I watched her kiss every mark she inflicted on my body.

She'd pause, inspect the wound and her face would twist in pain and shame before she softly kissed, then moved on to the next one.

"Come here," I said, when I couldn't watch her self- inflicted torture anymore.

She crawled up the length of my body, tired and slow.

Before she could speak, I lifted my head from the pillow and kissed her lips.

Her hands went to my hair and without breaking the kiss, I sat up and pulled her into my lap.

Miley's hands fluttered down my back, too lightly. She was being deliberately gentle.

I fell forward, so she was beneath me and I kissed the tears still coming down her cheeks.

Miley's hands slid my shorts down and I yanked up the old T-shirt of mine that she always wore to bed.

Her limbs wrapped around me and her face pressed in to my shoulder, making her tears glide down my skin and her cries muffled.

"Don't cry, Miley. Please don't cry."

"I need you," she said, pushing her hips up, rubbing herself against me. "Please, just, love me right now, I need this…"

I wedged a hand between us and guided myself to her.

I rocked us back and forth until I was deep inside of her.

"I love you…I love you…" she murmured, and I tried to ignore the guilt that seeped from her tone.

I pumped in to her harder, trying to make her forget…and for that short period of time, she did. Her tears stopped and her sobs turned in to moans of pleasure.

I thrusted harder, quicker, taking us both far away from last night.

Her walls clamped around my cock, clenching me tightly. I pressed my forehead to hers and grinded inside of her, making us writhe and climax together.

I spilled inside of her and a foolish, poetic part of me hoped it would wash all of this away for good.

I let my body go limp on top of her and she braided her fingers in to my hair.

We lay still, dozing in and out of sleep until we heard the front door open, then slam shut.

"Get outta bed, you two—we have coffee!"

It was Lily and by 'we' she probably meant everybody.

I sat up and found my shorts, then slid them on. Miley sat up, while I rolled over her and got out of the bed.

"I'll go out there. Just take your time," I said, before kissing the top of her head.

I just made it to the door when she called my name.

"Huh?" I asked.

Miley took the T-shirt off and tossed it to me.

I caught it in mid air and gave her a questioning look.

She bit her lip and her eyes fell to the scratches my chest, then looked up again, pleading with me.

"You don't have anything to be embarrassed or ashamed about," I said, looking her square in the eye.

"I'm coming in there after you if you're not out here in two seconds!" Lily shouted from outside the door.

"I mean it, Miley, don't—"

"Please?" she whispered and I slid the shirt over my head.

I did mean what I said.

Miley had nothing to be ashamed of…she didn't have a malicious bone in her body.

She had a dream that frightened her and she reacted, that was all…

And, right then, I truly believed that…but it would only be a matter of time before I'd run out of excuses for her.


	4. Small Fleeting Moment

**AN: if you're reading this, thanks for hanging in there.**

"_Were you born to resist or be abused?"_

_-Foo Fighters_

Chapter Three

We both slid in to denial as things got progressively worse.

Miley's episodes came more frequently and more violently. It was no longer just smacking and scratching, she'd begun to employ objects—anything in her reach—to throw or hit me with.

I stopped trying to find an explanation when it was over, mostly I just held her while she cried and yelped apologies, sometimes it was too much and I'd just walk away, leaving her terrified and broken and alone.

I'd be lying if I said resentment wasn't starting to build.

Our lives were being torn apart, slap by scratch, bruise by blood…

And I felt like a monster.

She was making me think things I didn't know I was capable of thinking.

I wanted to shake her, I wanted to break her hands when they flew at me in rage and I wanted to scream and smack and hit her, just as she had done to me.

The ironic part was we didn't discuss it.

On good days, we pretended all was perfectly normal, and on those days, I let myself hope, foolishly, that it was over.

On those days, she was _my_ Miley and despite the marks on my body that served as proof, I almost found it hard to believe anything had ever happened at all.

Miley stopped going to work and school—again, we didn't ever speak of it, we didn't have to, we both knew why.

She was afraid she'd hurt someone, and for the life of me I couldn't bring myself to argue that.

Another unspoken aspect of this hell was the secrecy. After awhile, I forgot it was even an option to let someone else in on this…nobody knew what was going on inside of our home, behind closed doors. Miley would refuse to see Lily and Blanda unless I was around, she'd make up excuses and lies, and without even thinking about it, I'd play along with her.

Why?

I'm still not entirely sure now…all I knew was I was confused, but everything always led me back to Miley…I just couldn't betray her.

Still, the weight of these unspoken decisions was getting harder and harder to hold.

The denial, I suppose, stemmed from the fact that if we both acknowledged it out loud, anything good that remained would change…and to me, that was scarier than anything Miley could physically do to me…but still, a tiny, black part of me was starting to hate her.

**ONE MONTH LATER**

I was getting ready to leave work, rather regretfully. I dreaded walking in to our home at the end of the day, never quite sure of what I would find. At the hospital, it was much easier to pretend things were normal. Work was an escape and I reveled in it, while at the same time hated it.

I was constantly worried Miley would hurt herself while I was gone—not on purpose, but lately she'd been in to breaking things.

I was at Amber's admittance desk, signing off on papers when Dr. Landsport approached me.

"Dr. Jonas, glad to have caught you," he said, bustling up.

I gave a slight nod and kept my eyes on the paperwork; there was a scratch on my jaw and I'd done enough lying about it today, I was tired.

"I've cleared your schedule for tomorrow—"

"Why?" My head snapped up.

I knew things were starting to take a toll on me, but not at work.

Lately I've been throwing myself in to work, in fact, Dr. Landsport had been letting me participate even more in surgeries.

I didn't want a break—I _needed_ to be here, I hadn't gotten sloppy—

"I want you to do the Meyer bypass tomorrow, start to finish. You're ready for this and I'll be the supervising surgeon."

A slow smile spread across my face.

Finally.

_Something_ good.

I shook his hand and thanked him, for more than he could ever understand.

He gave me the Meyer chart to pore through and the surgery schedule, then he was gone.

Suddenly, I was buoyant.

"Congratulations!" Amber said, slipping in to her coat.

"Thank you," I said, smiling back at her.

"You should celebrate," she said. "I know you shouldn't drink, but, dinner or something…"

"Yeah…" I said, and my stomach flipped.

I wanted so badly to be with Miley right then. I wanted to go back two months and share this with her, with my Miley…but I was alone.

"Well, Miley will be proud. Tell that girlfriend of yours to take you out to dinner," Amber winked, putting her purse on her shoulder.

Before I knew what I was doing, I did it.

"She's not home."

"Oh. Well, what the hell? I'm not busy, let's go to eat," Amber shrugged.

And just like that, I agreed.

The thing you _have_ to understand is this: I've never been attracted to Amber.

At all.

But right then, she just seemed so _normal_, so refreshingly normal, that I couldn't help it.

I wanted two hours, just _two hours,_ outside of work, just to be normal.

I wanted to eat a meal without my stomach churning, I wanted to laugh, without a tense cloud hanging over me, I wanted to not pretend—and Miley had taken all of that from me.

Even in the company of our friends, it was all still there.

That's why when Amber, a complete outsider to my world, offered me normal, I took it.

My intentions were self serving, but not _wrong._ I would never look at another woman the way I looked at Miley—I simply couldn't feel _anything_from _anyone_ other than her…which is why I hadn't left her a month ago. There was nothing else for me.

Dinner was dinner, Amber flirted, I didn't and we talked about work.

Then I went home.

Two hours late.

"Mile?" I called out as soon as I opened the door, I was always playing offense.

I found her in the kitchen, fumbling in the drawer where we kept the steak knives.

Her shoulders were shaking and I heard frustrated whimpers coming from her.

My stomach plummeted and I flung myself toward her and grabbed her hands, still inside the drawer.

"Where the hell were you?!" she screamed, kicking back, nailing me in the shin.

"Dinner," I said, defiant, like a child.

I briefly wondered how long she'd been like this, then felt a painful stab of guilt.

I shouldn't have done this.

Her hands wriggled in the drawer, still locked in mine, it was only a matter of seconds before one of us got cut on a blade.

"Let go," she hissed, and I did.

I don't know why.

Maybe to see what she would do.

Maybe because if I did, it would all just…end.

Maybe because I was tired of being the one in control all the time—maybe because just once, I wanted to let it out, to fight back…because tonight, when I should be happy and proud, I was here, doing this.

The resentment from all of the pain and all of the secrecy came to a head.

She had successfully dragged me in to her madness.

"What are you going to do? Cut me?" I asked, holding my hands in the air.

She screamed and her hands came from the drawer, wielding a knife.

I caught her wrist and the knife dropped to the floor.

She thrashed and kicked and something occurred to me.

I was stronger than her.

I'd been so worried about _her_ getting hurt, I hadn't before realized how easily I could simply over power her.

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh and brought her to me by yanking her wrist.

I drew in her other flailing arm and held both of her arms down, using one of mine.

This infuriated her more and she whipped her head back, crashing her skull into my lip. I laughed at the sharp shock of pain and bent down to pick the knife up, still restraining her small, wiggling body to mine.

Miley worked an arm free and I jerked my head back, certain she would go for my face, but she didn't.

Her arm dropped to her side and I put my hand in the drawer to put the knife away, then her hand shot out and slammed the drawer shut.

I froze in pain.

She did it again, then again, quick and fierce.

"Fuck! Fuck!" I yelled out, letting her go.

She instantly fell to the floor and I held my hand up to my face.

It was broken.

I was certain of it.

I stepped over Miley, who was in a heap on the floor and walked out the door.

She'd be fine, it was over for now, there was always at least a few hours between shows, and right then, I didn't care much about her apologies or her guilt.

On the way to the hospital, I held my throbbing hand to my chest and tried to block everything else out. If I could just focus on the pain, I wouldn't have to think about what I'd just done, or how I couldn't let this go on anymore. I wouldn't have to acknowledge that we were…destroyed.

At the hospital, I sat in the E.R. on a flimsy cot, waiting to be X-rayed.

There was a woman next to me, probably mid-forties, with a busted lip and some nasty bruises around her neck.

I listened while she lied to the attending, my colleague, explaining how she fell down the stairs.

Oldest lie in the book, not very creative.

I'd heard it a thousand times when I did my residency in the E.R.

Please.

Bruises on your neck from a fall down the stairs?

It was a clear case of spousal abuse, these women always lied to cover for some sick bastard. I never understood why and it was beyond frustrating. I mean—

"Dr. Jonas! What happened to you?" Dr. Gerandy, head of E.R. came to my bedside.

I smiled limply and held up my hand.

"It's broken."

"I see that. What'd ya do, kid?"

"I slammed it in the car door."

Jesus.

I glanced at the woman next to me and I suddenly understood.

This was sick.

This had to stop.

Dr. Gerandy chuckled, then looked thoughtful.

"What?" I asked. Surely, he didn't suspect—

"I guess this ruins your plans for tomorrow. I only just heard you were…"

My eyes closed and I let his words tune out.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

She'd blown it for me.

Looking back now, I suppose it was my fault…I let it go on, I let it perpetuate, but at the time, all I could do was blame her.

I was X-rayed and casted, then went up a few floors to take care of the matter of tomorrows operation that I would no longer be performing.

I drove home, cursing my hand and cursing Miley, my jaw clenched and unclenched and my body kept tensing with rage.

I whipped the door open and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The bedroom door was open and she was there, sitting up on the bed, shaking and crying.

Right then, I saw all of her.

The little girl who got slammed by a volleyball, the beautiful, compassionate woman I vowed to love forever -and the monster who attacked me without mercy.

Inside of me overwhelming love mixed with shreds of hate and resentment and my stomach heaved from all of it.

I wanted to hold her and tell her it was okay.

I wanted to shake her and tell her she ruined my life.

"Nick, oh my God—"

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" I asked, holding my casted hand up.

Her body crumpled and folded in on itself. The cries coming from her were primitive and painful.

"It's over. I'm done. We're getting to the bottom of this," I said, because I just knew this wasn't really her. There was an explanation somewhere and I'd never give up on her.

I refused.

"I'm scared," she yelped.

"Yeah, well, me too," I said, harshly.

"I can't hurt you anymore…I…think I should…leave."

"Oh? And go where?" I asked, still angry.

"I don't—"

"You can't run from this anymore. I won't let you. We have to stop pretending, Miley, because someone is going to get hurt. Badly."

She nodded.

"I'm telling my Dad tomorrow and then I'm going to tell your's. He might—"

"No! No," she said, jumping out of the bed.

"Yes. You need help and I can't seem to give you that."

"I will get help, but, god, this would kill Robby—"

"You're killing _me_!"

This bought on a fresh round of tears, but I'd had enough of that, too.

She started to walk to the bathroom, but I wouldn't let her run anymore. As she passed me, I grabbed the T-shirt she wore.

"Let me go," she whispered.

"No."

For the first time, I wanted her to get angry. I wanted her to go violently mad, so I could be angry, too.

She twisted around weakly, but I kept a firm grasp on her shirt.

She smacked at my hand and I let her, smirking down at her and watching her try to break free. I was going to save her if it was the last thing I did.

She went to bite my hand and I let her, but it was surprisingly not painful.

She didn't mean it and I wasn't sure quite what that meant.

When she drew her mouth away, I pressed my lips down on hers-giving in to the mix of love and hate.

Her nails dug into my sides, burning me, but her lips parted and she slipped her tongue into my mouth.

I gripped her face, letting the cast press in to her skin, probably too hard, and pushed my tongue back in to hers. I was going to win _this_ fight.

Miley's hands pulled at my hair, bringing me closer, and I mimicked her, pulling at her hair…but then she stopped.

My grip released automatically and Miley took a step back.

Her eyes were round and soft and understanding.

Without a word she lifted her shirt over her head and let it fall to the floor.

She reached for my hand and placed it on her breast, then squeezed down hard, her hand still covering mine.

I looked up to meet her eyes, she was biting her lip and staring into my eyes and then, I knew what she was doing.

She was giving me permission.

Miley was going to let me take my aggression, my anger and resent out on her—in the most loving way possible.

Her hand squeezed harder.

"Miley, don't—"

"I want you to."

"No, believe me, you don't," I said, but I couldn't make myself move my hand.

I took a deep breath.

I couldn't touch her right now, not with everything going on inside of me. I could hurt her with the anger and love and sorrow I was feeling right now.

"Please? Please. Let it out," she said. "I know you love me, and I know you're angry, and I know I've left you no options, you need to—"

"I could hurt you," I whispered, taking a step closer.

"You won't," she said, picking up my broken hand gently. She kissed the finger tips peeking out of the cast, then lightly bit down on them, giving me a very small incentive…but it was all I needed.

With my hand still on her breast, I pushed her back, until her knees hit the bed and she fell back on to it.

She smiled in…relief? Triumph? I wasn't sure, but it didn't matter, I was already giving in to all of the horrible things inside of me.

I stood between her legs and gripped her thigh tightly with my hand, leaving marks on her this time. I kept my eyes off of her face, I couldn't look there and see love right now.

I leaned forward and grabbed her tits roughly, with one hand, and the frustration that I couldn't use both agitated me more.

I pinched down hard on her nipple and she cried out in pleasure, her hips lifted from the bed, humping up and down at nothing and I kept twisting and pulling at her.

"More—harder," she panted.

I lifted my hand and it came back down in a hard smack in the same spot. She yelped out, egging me on and I did it again, then slid my hand down, clenching and pulling her flesh as I went.

My hand stopped between her legs and I let my palm rest against her core.

She was enjoying this.

Her wetness pooled in my hand and without warning I slammed three fingers inside of her.

Miley spread her legs wider and inched down, into my hand, asking for more.

I pumped my fingers in and out of her, rough and hard, tearing at her until I had to make myself stop. Miley being Miley would let me go too far, she'd sacrifice herself for my sake and I knew it.

I dropped to the floor on my knees and without looking, for fear of the damage I'd done, I let my tongue glide up her slit, then dip inside of her.

I kissed and sucked, reveling in the physical parts of her, the parts that were still familiar and unchanged. Maybe her mind was foreign to me now, but this body was as familiar to me as my own and I clung to it. It was all I had left.

Miley kept very still as I worked back up her body, nipping at her and kneading at her flesh. I stood and unbuckled my belt and stepped out of my pants, then let myself collapse on to her. She put her hands in my hair, but I didn't want her to feel me, so I grabbed her hands in one of mine and held them over her head. I dipped my head down and took her nipple in to my mouth and bit down, causing her to wiggle and buck beneath me.

I sucked and licked my way up her chest and neck, listening to her loud, quick breathing.

When I reached her lips, she lifted her head to kiss me, but I couldn't. I turned my head from hers and pressed my lips in to her shoulder and my eyes fell on my limp, casted hand resting next to her head.

I abruptly sat up.

"Don't stop," she whispered.

"Flip over," I said.

I just…couldn't look at her.

She rolled to her stomach and lifted her hips, so she was on her knees and I spread her thighs, positioned myself at her entrance and closed my eyes. I took a deep, pensive, breath and prayed I would be forgiven for this blasphemous act…God forgive me, but it was anything but love.

I slammed myself into her and she moaned, low and satisfied.

My broken hand slammed down on her lower back, sending shocks of pain through both of us, causing us both to yell out.

I did it again and she bucked back in to me, and I pushed back harder.

"Hold still," I growled and she did.

I pounded hard and deep in to her, trying to drive out the violent demons inside of her. She arched her back and my hand gripped in to her hair, pulling it back.

With each heavy breath, she let out a grunt while I silently and fiercely kept drilling in to her.

My hair was drenched in sweat and hung in my eyes, my muscles started to ache, and then, without warning, her pussy clamped down and she started spasming, her elbows bowed and shook and I felt her come on my cock, wet and violent.

I kept going, just as hard, until I exploded in to her with a one final, angry thrust.

Her body collapsed on the bed and I quickly jumped off the bed, abruptly horrified at what I'd just done.

My shaking hands raked through my hair and I couldn't catch my breath.

I stared at her still form, face down on the bed and slowly walked backward, my head slightly shaking no, trying to deny what I'd just done.

I turned and went to the bathroom and ran the shower.

Fuck the cast.

I got in and stood, numbly under the hot spray of water, then pounded my good fist into the wet tile twice.

What had I done?

Shame coursed through me and my throat constricted. I was going to throw up. I swallowed and gagged, gasping for air through the humid mist.

I love her.

Still.

I love her.

How could I have done that, permission or not, it was sick and it was wrong…and she may not know better right now, but I did, and I took advantage of her trust in me...but, maybe she wasn't the only one terrified and lost in this. I needed something, anything…

The shower door slid open and Bella was there, naked and wearing an expression of understanding.

She gave a watery, half smile and stepped in the shower.

And there she was, my girl. My Miley, clear as day, in front of me, strong and reassuring.

I grabbed her waist with one arm and crushed her to me.

She held on to me tightly, and kissed any flesh she could get to.

"Nick, it's okay," she whispered, and I barely heard her over the rush of the water running over us.

I sighed heavily at her words.

I just wanted someone to say that to me.

I drew my head back and kissed her softly on her lips, trying to apologize….because I _was_ sorry.

Because I loved her, despite my anger and despite her actions, I still needed her…maybe even more than she needed me.

"I'm going to figure this out, everything will be fine," she said.

And for that fleeting, small moment, I almost believed her.


	5. Babe Ruth

Hang on kiddos, it's about to get crazy up in here.

"…_the truth, is you could slit my throat,_

_And with my one last gasping breath,_

_I'd apologize for bleeding on your shirt…"_

_-taking back sunday_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

The next morning broke wet and dismal…perfectly fitting.

We hadn't really slept through the night…we mostly just held on to each other and talked about what all of this could mean.

For the first time, it was out there, spoken, and a small part of me hated it.

There was no going back, for her or me; now I would have to face what I'd done as well. The secrets I kept, the countless lies I told, the way I let her keep this going for my own selfish reasons…and the way I'd used her last night.

Shame still burned hot inside of me and I promised myself, I'd never touch her in anything but love, ever again.

We lay in the dark and whispered apologies and promises back and forth; Miley had been peaceful, loving and warm—she'd been herself.

In the morning, we showered together again, quietly, taking in our last few moments of peace, before we would leave to go break this thing open.

Due to my broken hand and my already cleared schedule, I had the day off, which was good, because I still planned to go see Robby Ray and my father…and Miley was being surprisingly agreeable, eager even.

"Are you gonna be okay?" I asked, hoisting myself up on the kitchen counter.

She nodded and let her fingers brush over my cast.

"I have to do this. I have to," she said, staring at the cast.

I stretched a leg out to her and nudged her thigh and smiled at her.

"You know I love you, right? I mean, I love you. No matter what."

"I know," she smiled, and stepped in between my legs. "That's kind of the problem. You'll put up with this until…until…" she trailed off, biting her trembling lip.

I pulled her in and rested my chin on her head.

She didn't need to utter it, we both knew what she couldn't say.

It was silent for awhile and a sick part of me wondered what would happen if I didn't stop it.

I was jerked out of my morbid thoughts by the sound of car doors slamming in the driveway.

"Who the hell could that be?" I mumbled.

Who would be here at nine o'clock on a Tuesday morning?

"It's raining," Miley shrugged, taking a step back. "Baseball."

I rolled my eyes and shook my head.

When we were kids, we played baseball in the rain. It started out with Joe and I when we were little since we were brought up being die hard Yankee fans. Later Miley was included and she brought Lilly, which is how her and Oliver met. Joe had girls that would come and go, but in the end it was all 5 of us every rainy day.

The tradition carried on in to adulthood, and because it so rarely rained in our town in California, it was always an event. We always dropped whatever we had planned so we could all play.

As soon as a rain cloud would roll in, they'd leave work or school or get out of bed in the middle of the night to meet up. It was an unspoken pact—it was just what we did.

And I used to, too…but it wasn't so easy to leave a patient for a baseball game in the rain. Needless to say, I hadn't played in quite awhile.

"I'll get rid of them," I said, grasping her hips and moving her to the side so I could hop down.

"No, Nick, don't. I want to play."

"Miley, no, we—"

"Look, I'll do it, right after. I'll go straight to the hospital or to my Daddy or where ever you want me to…but I feel in control today…and you're here and we never all play together anymore…and I just, I want one last _normal_thing, for all of us, before they know about me, before everything changes. Please, let me give this to them. Please."

"Baby, I don't—"

"Can you think of a more perfect way for us to all just be together, happy…," she was pleading, desperate, like she actually _needed_ this.

I had to remember that she had been in this nightmare, too.

That she was just as hurt and scared, probably even more, as me…she deserved _something_ good for once.

I would love to hear her laugh and play again…I missed it desperately.

And, how long could the rain last? An hour, maybe? I'd been doing this for two months, another hour wouldn't kill me—hopefully.

"Nick, the rain is a sign…I just know it," she said full of excitement at the thought of doing something…happy.

I gave in and she threw her arms around my neck.

She was right, the rain was definitely a sign.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The four of them trampled in to the house, talking and laughing loudly…and I was struck by how foreign the laughter sounded in our home.

I was jealous of how simple their worlds were, I was jealous of the life I used to have.

"What are you doing home, Doctor?" Joe asked, swatting at my head.

I ducked and he missed.

I held up the cast.

Oliver raised his eyebrows and whistled.

"What happened?" Joe asked, and Blanda started rummaging through her purse.

"Car door," I said, my gut twisting at the lie, but I felt Miley's body relax beside me in relief.

"You asshole," Oliver laughed, shaking his head.

He had _no_ idea.

Blanda produced a black Sharpie from her purse and held it up, grinning wickedly at me.

"Forget it," I said, backing away.

"Oh! Come on. You're no fun anymore," she said, grabbing for my hand.

And she was right.

I wasn't.

I held my arm out, the cast had to be replaced anyway, the shower had ruined it.

They all took turns scrawling graffiti on the cast until I looked like a thirteen year old boy—with very dirty friends.

Joe simply wrote 'douche bag' in big block letters and I couldn't help but crack a very real smile.

Their immaturity was infectious.

Abruptly, I felt _good._

I needed them, they reminded me that there was still some happiness somewhere for me.

I decided, right then and there, to let it go, just for one hour, just so I could have this.

Blanda thrust the marker at Miley, who'd just been watching and laughing until now.

Miley cradled my hand to her chest for a moment and I stared pensively at her face, nervous about what she might do.

I fought the overwhelming urge to snatch my hand away, then felt sick I had to think about it at all.

She brought the marker to my cast and began to write.

"_My Prince Charming_."

It was one of her goofy pet names for me, but somehow now, the words had new meaning.

I felt…hope.

We stared at each other until Joe scoffed.

"Well, now he just looks like a pussy."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I couldn't actually play, because of my hand, so I was elected referee, which was fine—I'd been playing that role a lot lately.

We were in the same muddy field we'd played in since childhood, laughing and getting soaked in the rain, calling each other out on cheating and mercilessly harassing each other.

For the first fifteen minutes, it was fun and I was glad we came.

Then, Lily handed Miley the aluminum bat and I winced. My eyes focused in on the bat, and all I could see was a weapon.

I took a few steps toward Miley, just in case.

"Psssh, easy out," Joe called from the pitcher's mound, tossing the ball in the air and catching it.

Miley grinned and tapped the bat in the dirt.

"Just pitch the ball, moron," she said.

"In good time, Babe Ruth. I'm strategizing."

Her knuckles went white around the bat and her shoulders tensed.

"Fucking throw it," she yelled.

Joe laughed in giddy shock at her outburst and Oliver whooped in the outfield, innocently egging her on.

They couldn't have known.

"Oh? You ready, tough girl?" Joe taunted, holding the ball up.

"Joe! Stop!" I yelled, and all eyes turned to me, like I was the crazy one.

Joe smirked and tossed the ball in the air again.

"Don't—"

"_Fuck_ you!" she shouted at him, then took off like a shot with the bat still in her hand before I could catch her.

I ran, aware of the confused stares on me, my eyes locked with Joe's.

"Fucking move!" I shouted at him, just as the bat made contact with his side.

He fell to the ground and I grabbed her arm, just before the bat came down on him again.

I shook her arm hard, forcing her to drop the bat and she bucked and writhed hysterically, shouting and cursing at Joe, who was on the ground, his face distorted in pain.

Oliver ran over and extended his arm, heaving Joe up and I heard Blanda's terrified screams, mixing with Miley's enraged growls.

I gathered Miley's swinging arms and crushed them down in to me.

Blanda was in front of us in a flash.

She wound an arm back and slapped Miley's screaming face.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" she cried, defending Joe.

Miley kicked out, but Blanda jumped back.

Lily came and yanked Blanda back, Joe was clutching his side, breathing hard.

Miley spat and screamed at me, demanding to be let go.

They all stared, in frozen, horrified confusion, while they watched her twist and thrash like an animal in my arms.

I briefly thought about what this must look like to outsiders, who've never seen her do this before. I almost laughed at their expressions, because this was as routine to me as getting the mail.

I don't know how long it lasted, seconds, minutes, hours?

All I know is that her screams eventually turned in to sobs and she went limp against me.

I lowered her to the ground and stood straight.

I couldn't hold her this time.

I was disgusted with her, with myself for being so…stupid. For letting her hurt someone else. It was my fault, and I knew it.

"J, I am so sorry," I said, apologizing for her, but mostly for me. I stepped around Miley, who had drawn her knees to her chest and cried. "Are you alright?" I asked Joe.

"What the fuck was that?!" he shouted, wincing in pain.

I felt like a fool, because I couldn't give him an answer; because I lived like that for two months without an explanation and now, for the life of me, I didn't know _why_.

Something clicked in me when I _saw_ her attack somebody else, I never actually saw how animalistic and vicious it really was…or maybe I had, but chose to look past it. At any rate, I couldn't anymore.

And then, because I was worried she'd convince me otherwise if I gave her the chance, and because I was sick of the responsibility and I was tired of being worried and hurt—I made a decision.

"Call the police. Press charges. Tell them it's her, they'll send her Dad."

"What!? No, no," Lily cried, she was looking at her best friend, broken and sobbing in the dirt. I could tell she wanted to go to her, but she was scared.

"Nick, what the hell is going on?" Oliver asked.

I laughed, short and hard and started to unbutton my shirt.

I would show them exactly what was going on.

I shrugged out of the shirt and let it fall to the ground. Their stares went from confusion to horror.

"This is from a hairbrush," I said, pointing to a bruise just under my collarbone. "This is from the remote control," I continued, pointing out another welt. I dipped my shoulder down. "These were done by her hands," I said, my voice getting louder as I gestured to the deep, crusting scratches on my shoulder. "This is where she hit me with a glass," I said, brushing a purple mark on my chest. "She was going for my head, but she's always had bad aim," I sneered.

I looked down, at all of the marks and scratches…there were simply too many to go through.

I shook my head and held up the cast.

"Not a car door," I said flatly. "Call the fucking police."

I didn't meet any of their eyes, I couldn't, I was afraid of what I might see.

"Nick?" it was Lily who spoke, in a small, scared voice.

"What?" I sighed, looking up to the grey sky, letting the rain pelt down on my face and run in to my eyes.

"Are you…are you okay?"

"No."

She flung herself at me and her arms wrapped tightly around me, and without even thinking about it, I clutched on to her tiny body and held her to me, as if she was going to save me.

There were a million questions to answer and surely hell to go through, but right then, the only thing that mattered was that I wasn't alone anymore.

I was vaguely aware of Oliver pulling Miley up off the ground behind us, but I didn't move to go to her—someone else could take care of her for once.

"Joe," Miley yelped and I crushed Lily tighter to me.

"I am so sorry! I can't, oh, God, no, no, Joe—"

Oliver took a step back and put his arm out, shielding Lily.

I couldn't blame him.

I let go of Lily and grabbed Miley's hand, turning her to face me.

I stared at her and fished in my pocket, producing my cell phone.

I dialed her Dad's station and put the phone to my ear, then let my casted hand rest lightly on Miley's cheek.

I kept my gaze on her scared, watery eyes.

Someone answered with the usual hard police greeting.

"I need to report an assault," I said to the stranger on the phone, then I pressed my lips to her forehead and let my burning eyes close.


	6. All the Possibilities

**Thanks to all you loyal followers, you mean so much to me. Now the secret is going to be shared.**

Chapter Six

Blanda and Joe didn't wait around for Robby Ray, Blanda insisted on driving Joe to the hospital right away…she was scared, angry and hurt.

The cop on the phone let me speak to Robby Ray briefly, when I dropped Miley's name, just as I knew he would.

What you _have_ to understand about my decision to call the police is this: if I didn't call _that_ second, in the midst of that horrific situation—I wouldn't have called at all.

I would've found an excuse, just like I did with the baseball game, just like I had been for the past two months.

If I would've chosen to just drive her to the hospital, my sick mind would have found a way out. I just knew that I would look at her, sad and scared, and I'd break…but when I saw Joe, hurt and confused for no reason, when I saw her _attack_ him with such ferocity, I had to stop it.

I simply _had_ to break the cycle, and I knew once Robby Ray was involved, there'd be no going back. It would be out of my indecisive hands—and at the time, I was so wracked with guilt about Joe and so tired and so frightened for her, I _thought_that's what I wanted.

I was wrong.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I wrapped my arms around her shuddering body and we waited.

For it to end…for it to begin…I wasn't really sure.

Lily and Oliver were there, they didn't ask questions just then and I was grateful.

Lily used her wet sleeve to wipe Miley's dirt crusted tears and told her over and over that it was okay, that whatever the problem was, it was all okay. She was filling my role from two months ago quite nicely.

Robby Ray's cruiser tore right in to the field, but there were no lights, no sirens and he was alone.

I held Miley closer to me, probably too tight, and swallowed hard, making my raw throat ache.

Here it was.

The culmination of hell.

The day I desperately wanted and desperately dreaded.

Everything was about to change…and for the life of me I could not _make_ myself let her go.

I heard Robby Ray's door slam and I pried my eyes open to look at him, over the top of Miley's head.

The first thing I noticed was his face was twisted in rage.

The second thing I noticed was he wasn't wearing his badge, or his gun. He was here unofficially.

"You son of a bitch!" he shouted, barreling towards us. "Get your damn hands off of her!"

Jesus.

I don't know why I was surprised, anyone would draw the same conclusion.

I thought I'd been clear on the phone, still the only words Robby Ray heard were _assault, Miley_ and _I_.

Oliver sprang out in front of Robby Ray.

" , it's not—"

"If you defend that bastard you're gonna be right next to him in a cell. Move," Robby Ray growled, shoving Oliver.

"Robby," I said, releasing Miley and turning to him, "it's not like that."

Robby Ray paused and looked at me, still shirtless, everything exposed.

He rushed to Miley and cupped her face.

"You fought back…thank God, you fought back," he said, then pulled her in to him.

He assumed my wounds were proof of her defending herself.

"Daddy?" her voice was weak and muffled in to his chest.

I wanted to cry for her.

"Nick didn't hurt me. I've been hurting him."

For a second, I thought he might laugh, then he looked down at his daughter and saw her broken, fearful expression.

"Somebody tell me what the hell is going on," he said, his voice low.

So, I did.

I told him what I was certain of, the facts, and that wasn't much.

As I was talking, saying it all out loud for the first time, I realized how awful I had been to keep this quiet for so long.

Lily, Oliver and Robby Ray listened, with horrified stares, while Miley looked on shamefully.

She shouldn't have.

It wasn't her fault, it was mine.

I took a deep breath and apologized, to all of them, but to Miley most of all.

"What were you _thinking_?" Robby Ray stormed, after being eerily quiet.

"I don't know," I answered, truthfully. "It's not…it wasn't really a decision at all. It just…snowballed and we were…stuck."

It was pathetic, but it was the truth.

Robby Ray flinched in anger at my answer. It wasn't good enough and I knew it.

"You're supposed to love her, _protect_ her—"

He didn't trust me with her and I didn't blame him.

"Dad, it wasn't his fault, you don't understand—"

"It's okay, Miley," I said, keeping my eyes on hers. The last thing I needed was for her to get worked up now. "Robby Ray, I want to talk to my father, he'll have some kind of insight, I'm sure. She needs help."

"Now?! Now you decide this—"

"I know!" I shouted, letting my self- hatred flare out at him. "I know, okay? I get it! I fucked it all up—"

I cut myself off and took a deep breath. I had to stay calm for her. "Look, . I can figure this out. I can and I will. Just—"

"You've done a great job so far," he spat. "I'll take care of it from here."

"You can't do it on your own. Listen, my father is chief of staff at the hospital, you know that. He loves her like a daughter—he'll make her first priority, she'll get the best of everything, Robby Ray."

He considered this and slowly nodded his head.

Though he hated it, I was right.

"You go to your father immediately, tell him all of this—then you call me—"

"Woah, wait. You need to take her to the hospital—"

"I'm going to spend some time with my daughter—"

He wasn't getting it.

" , you're _really_ underestimating the severity of the situation here," I said.

"_Me_? I am?! You've got nerve, son. You hide this for months, _months_, and then you want to start calling the shots…"

I tuned him out.

I didn't need to hear what I already knew.

My eyes fell on Miley while her father ranted. Lily had her arms around her shoulders and Miley looked exhausted. She'd sleep soon, we'd been up all night and these episodes always wore her out.

Truthfully, I didn't want her to hear what my father might say anyway. Whatever it was, I'd find a way to explain it to her in the most non-frightening way possible…I couldn't stand to see her more scared and confused than she already was.

I was vaguely aware that Robby Ray stopped talking and I went to Miley.

I took her hand and led her away from Lily, until we were out of earshot from everyone.

"Do you want to go with your dad? Just for a few hours?" I asked, carefully. For the past two months, she refused to see anyone without me by her side…but now that everyone knew, I wasn't sure how she'd feel.

"I'll be fine. You, go. Figure me out," she said, trying to smile.

"It won't be long, I promise—"

"Nick. Go," she kind of half laughed and half sobbed, there were tears coming from the corners of her eyes still.

I bent my head to kiss her and her hands softly stroked my face.

"Nick?" she asked, pulling away much too soon.

"Hmm?"

"Do you…do you think Joe will forgive me?"

"Yes," I answered quickly and truthfully.

She nodded and wiped her eyes.

"Do you think that, um, do you think I'll ever be…," her voice cracked and she let it trail off.

"I think that me and you will be just fine. Better than fine," I said, running a finger over her trembling lip.

"Me and you," she repeated.

"Yeah, me and you," I whispered.

She put her arms around my waist and rested her head on me. I fought the urge to pick her up and run away from all of this…again.

"Will you bring me to my Daddy's? I know it's stupid and kind of…I just, really want to be next to you right now—"

"Miley, of course I will," I said.

I knew exactly how she was feeling.

Somehow, in the middle of this violent dream, we had become completely codependent. We trapped each other in this, so the only people we could relate to, the only people who could possibly understand us…was us.

We had been bonded together in violence and fear, and I could only hope that if this all came to an end, all of the wonderful things about _us_ would remain intact…that our lives wouldn't forever be overshadowed by this…_thing_.

Robby Ray was less than thrilled about the riding situation, but he relented, probably to have a minute, to take it all in.

Lily and Oliver went to go see about Joe, and to explain what they knew, what I'd told them.

Miley fell asleep in the car and I kept stealing glances at her. She looked so small and delicate as she slept close to the window, and my mind couldn't wrap around the fact that she just took a baseball bat to my brother.

I let my mind wander to the surreal events of the day, it all seemed so dreamlike still, not like my life at all.

When we got to Robby Ray's, I carefully lifted Miley from the car and cradled her to me while she slept. Robby opened the door and silently stepped aside, so I could carry her upstairs, to her childhood bedroom.

I lay her down on the bed and grabbed a quilt to cover her with, then swept the hair from her face and let my fingers brush over the dark circles under her eyes.

This was killing her.

I straightened up and stretched my back, then let myself take in the room that was so familiar to me, so much a part of my history.

The sun started to peak through the clouds, so I drew the curtains on the window, the same window I entered and exited freely through all throughout my teen years.

I placed a flat palm of the foot of the bed that we made love on for the first time, years ago, when we were young and awkward and foolishly under the impression that life would always be perfect.

On her shelves were framed pictures, tons of pictures, all of which I knew so well.

There was one of the five of us, soaking wet, post baseball game…it was taken in the tenth grade, I could still remember the day vividly.

There was one of Miley and Lily taken after graduation—I took that one myself.

The next one was of me, alone, asleep on her bed at the age of seventeen…when I used to sleep peacefully in her presence.

Prom, spring break, Christmas—and in not _one_of those photos was a single, miniscule hint of what was to come.

In all of those memories I couldn't recall a single time where she'd acted violently-or even irrationally.

Something bought this on.

Now that my mind was open to it, now that it was out there, it seemed so obvious.

I pulled out my phone and dialed my father.

"It's about time," was his curt greeting.

"What?"

"Well, I just wrote my son a prescription for pain medication. He has a broken rib. What the hell is going on, Nicholas?" he asked, his voice was steady and calm, after years in his profession and raising a son like Joe, nothing shocked my father, and for that I was glad. I was tired of the horrified stares.

"Can you meet me at my house?" I asked.

Unlike my father, my mother was prone to overreaction and I just couldn't deal with her right now.

"I'm on my way," my father said.

I kissed Miley's lips softly and left.

"I'll be back," I told her father, when I passed him on the way out.

He grunted something.

"Listen, if she's…mad when she wakes up—just be careful. It can be scary and it's—"

"I think _I_can handle it," Robby Ray sneered.

He still wasn't getting it.

I left quickly, the sooner I was gone, the sooner I'd be back. Hopefully, she'd sleep the entire time.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I heard about that," my father said, gesturing to my cast.

I couldn't read his tone. Suspicion? Disappointment? Concern? All three?

I shook it off and dove right in.

"She slammed it in a drawer. Repeatedly."

My dad's lips pursed and he nodded his head.

"What else?" he asked, pulling out a kitchen chair. He sat while I paced slowly, rattling off her record.

His expression never wavered, not even a slight wince.

"Have you noticed a pattern?" he asked.

"None."

He asked a few more questions—the same questions I would've asked in his position, then he abruptly cut off, suddenly frustrated.

"Nicholas, you _know_ all of this."

I pressed the heels of my palms in to my eyes.

He sighed.

"She needs an MRI," he continued, calm again, his voice quiet, telling me what I already knew. "Now. Don't wait. I'll call up there so you can get her in right away, don't mess around in the E.R….I'd like to see her myself, if she's comfortable with that. Skip admittance—they'll ask questions and send her straight to the psych ward, then she'll be on the bottom of the list, she'll have to wait to be treated—"

"I know," I said, because I did.

"Nick?"

"What?"

"Have you prepared yourself for the possibilities, here?"

"No," I said, because I hadn't. I hadn't once let my mind think of all the horrific things it could be, I knew that was dangerous and selfish and wrong…but still, even now, I couldn't.

My father didn't get that and spoke anyway.

"There's a strong possibility of a brain tumor—"

"It's not that," I said, suddenly sure, now that he was forcing me out of my two month fog. "There's no balance issues, no speech problems—"

"It's still a possibility," my father cut in. "As is a chemical imbalance or—"

"A head injury," I blurted out, without even realizing it was coming, without even knowing I already knew.

Suddenly, a part of me that has been closed for months came rushing back, in a painful, blinding rush.

My fists came down hard on the table and my father cocked his head, puzzled.

Fuck.

_Stupid._

Fuck.

"The fucking windows," I shouted at my father, though he had no idea what I was talking about.

My hands tore through my hair, the cast scraping and pulling in anger?

Relief?

Disgust.

My father closed his eyes when he spoke…he simply could not look at me.

"She had an accident."

"Yeah. Yes. Jesus. She hit her head, grade two—"

"What the hell were you thinking?!" he finally lost his cool, because I was supposed to know better and he knew it.

"I wasn't—I just—"

"Nick, that's _basic_, god—"

"Look at me!" I yelled, shoving my cast in his face. "I'm lucky I can remember how to take a piss! You just, you have no idea—"

"You're right. None. Because you acted foolishly."

His truth hit me like a slap in the face.

"I know that!"

"Do you? Do you realize the full extent of—"

"Nobody knows the damage better than me," I said, my heart pounding and my chest heaving.

"Nicholas—"

"Oh, god," I choked out, before my throat constricted and my stomach heaved.

I ran for the kitchen sink, where I threw up and gagged out until my entire body ached.

My actions made me physically ill.

I was disgusting.

My forearms rested on the counter and I let my head fall on to them, breathing hard and sweating.

I felt my father's hand on my back.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be."

"Sometimes, it's very hard for me to separate my work from my life."

"No shit," I mumbled. I couldn't help it, the man was beyond clinical.

He let it slide.

"It's actually quite common for people in the medical profession to overlook or repress what they know, when they fear for a loved one or for themselves…it happens. The reason probably being, is that we _do_ know more, we know all of the possibilities, so it's simply scarier to deal—"

"That's bullshit," I sighed.

"It's not though."

"For me, it is. It's a pathetic excuse for everything I didn't do."

"When Joe was five months old, he screamed for two days straight. Your mother was beyond worried, convinced something was wrong. I wrote it off as teething or colic…or something. You know your mother, she overreacts. I told her he was fine, despite how hard his stomach felt…despite all of the signs. I just couldn't…anyway. He had a bowel obstruction. He bled out. Another two hours…anyway, it happens. It happened to me."

I didn't move.

"It's been bad for you, hasn't it?" he asked, and he didn't sound like a doctor, he sounded like my father.

I sucked in a shaky breath.

"Can you please just…call now? I just, I just want to go get her."

"I'll meet you up there," he said, and patted my back twice before he left.

I straightened myself up and walked up the stairs, to change my clothes and brush my teeth. Everything was slow, quiet and I couldn't seem to go faster.

I opened Miley's drawers and grabbed some clothes for her, she hadn't changed since the baseball game when she'd gotten wet and dirty.

On the way out of the room, I went to flick the light switch off and paused.

I stared at it.

That fucker should have been my first sign, when I flipped it on and she whipped the ID at me.

My fist hit it repeatedly, until it cracked and the drywall around it trickled to the floor in hard chunks and dust.

When I was done, all that was left were some wires and a deep gash across my knuckles.

On the way back to Robby Ray's my mind unraveled.

In the seventh grade, I got her to that nurse's station and every gym period after that, she never had to worry again because I was right there, looking out for her.

When we were fourteen and she got caught with cheat notes for a history exam, I covered for her and said they were mine.

When she was sixteen and got piss drunk with Lily and Oliver for the first time, I dutifully picked her up from Lily's, snuck her in to her house and held her hair back while she puked and thought she was dying.

When we were twenty two and she just finished her final paper for her philosophy course, our computer crashed and she lost the entire thing. Long after she wept and gave up and went to bed, I stayed up all night, piecing it back together, using her notes, the best I could. She got an A.

All of those things and countless others…the point was, I'd never failed her before.

Ever.

But, none of those things _mattered_.

The truth was, when it mattered the most, when she needed me more than ever, I failed her.

I _failed_ her.

I kept her locked in that hell because I was too afraid and too selfish to face the possibilities. Subconsciously, I kept my own mind locked down, not letting a single thing get by, because I was a coward.

I let my hand run across the marks underneath my shirt.

I deserved them, each and every one of those wounds.

A part of me hoped she'd be enraged and violent when I got to her, a part of me _wanted_ her to hurt me just then, because any physical wound she could inflict was nothing compared to what I'd done to her.

At her dad's I pounded on the door until he opened it.

My eyes squeezed shut and I opened them again, hoping it had disappeared.

Nope.

There was a purple mark, the perfect imprint of Miley's bite, on Robby Ray's cheek.

I'd recognize it from anywhere.

My stomach lurched—just one more thing to repent for.

"I need to see her," I said, when he didn't move.

"She's not here."


	7. Not Such a Savior

**Sorry for the delay! I had finals and came home from school and spent a ton of time with family and friends. I hope this chapter was worth the wait. Again, sorry it took so long. Love to all and hope your holiday season has been amazing!xoxoxo**

"What do you mean she's not here?" I asked, incredulous.

"I mean she's. not. here," Robby Ray thundered and I only just now noticed how red his eyes were.

He'd been crying.

"Where the hell is she?" I asked, starting to panic.

"Look, Nick, you had no right to do what you did. I'm her _father_ and she's sick. She is _sick._You should've—"

I couldn't hear it again.

"What happened?" I asked, as a bubble of dread made its way to my chest.

"She woke up and asked when you'd be back. I told her I didn't know, and then I told her I didn't think you were necessarily the best thing for her right now. She didn't like that, to say the very least," Robby Ray said, gesturing to the bite mark on his cheek.

"Robby, where—"

"Before, I was mad at you. But now, after I saw her in action, I am _livid_ with you. Why in the hell did you let this go on?! She could've gotten hurt! She could've killed somebody—she threw a pair of fucking _scissors_ at my head—"

I could've laughed at his inexperience.

I'd learned to get rid of all glass, sharp and heavy objects weeks ago.

"Where is she?" I repeated, cutting him off. I couldn't bear the details.

"I want you to stay away from her. We don't need your—"

"You've got to be kidding me, Robby Ray—"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

He couldn't just cut me out—she was my life.

I was hers.

"You can't—"

"I can. I'm her closest living relative. You're her _boyfriend_. I call the shots now."

It felt like he punched me in the stomach…because he was right.

"Where. Is. She?"

"She's at a facility that's actually going to help her."

My fists rubbed at my eyes and I tried to steady my breathing.

No.

Oh no.

No. No. No.

"Where? Which one?"

"She doesn't want to see you."

Arrogant as I was, I found that very hard to believe, it showed on my face.

"It's true," he said.

"I don't know what you told her Robby Ray, and right now, I don't care. She's not crazy, she doesn't belong in there. Get her out."

"We talked about it, she wanted to go. She checked herself in. She didn't want you to be there."

A low sound came from my chest when I thought of her, making that decision, actually doing it…and I knew why she did it.

She did it to protect me…after I failed so miserably at protecting her.

I hated myself even more.

"You're not listening Robby Ray. I know what it is—three months ago, she hit her head, she had a concussion—" I cut myself off. Getting into the medical details right now would only waste time. "Look, she's not—"

"She had an accident? Exactly what else have you been hiding? _Dammit_, you are just—"

"Listen to me! I can get her help—"

"She is getting help. They're going to run tests and—"

"And in the meantime she sits in there and rots. She doesn't have to, I—"

"I don't trust you."

I stopped and closed my eyes.

My head nodded.

Why should he trust me?

I was wasting my time here; Miley had inherited her stubbornness from her father, he wasn't going to budge.

He simply would not trust a damn word that came out of my mouth and I couldn't even bring myself to hate him for it.

"Fine," I said, and he thought I'd given in.

Robby Ray launched in to a speech about what an idiot I was and I stared past him, trying to think.

She had to be somewhere close, I hadn't been gone that long. If she checked _herself_ in, she hadn't signed a DPA yet, which meant she hadn't actually given Robby Ray power of attorney yet, he'd been bluffing…hopefully, she hadn't been evaluated yet. If they found her mentally incompetent…Robby would automatically have the power to make medical decisions for her.

He was just wrapping up the neglectful son of a bitch speech, which suddenly struck me as ironic. This guy, a cop no less, was in denial for years when I was sneaking in to his daughter's bedroom at night.

"Robby. I need to use your phone," I said, abruptly.

He looked at me like I had three heads, but let me in anyway.

I grabbed the cordless phone from the coffee table and walked in to the kitchen.

I hit the redial button on the phone.

"St. Clair—" I clicked the phone off.

Sure enough, it was a psychological rehab facility.

For psychos.

We had patients transferred in and out of there all the time.

I dropped the phone on the table and tried not to scream.

This was a mess.

"Thanks, Robby," I said, sweeping past him and out the door.

I got in my car and closed my eyes.

Okay.

She checked herself in…they'd hold her if they thought she was a danger to herself or anyone else, and obviously…she was. They would, however, release her to another facility or hospital…if her doctor ordered it.

Her doctor.

Miley had a gynecologist and some guy she saw occasionally for sinus problems.

An OB and an ENT weren't exactly going to be my saving grace, here.

In the past couple of years, if she had an issue out of the realm of those two categories…I took care of it. I wrote her prescriptions and I…oh.

Yes.

Miley had always been more of an E.R. kind of girl, stitches, sprains…and she _always_got a kick out of naming me as her doctor when asked.

This would be a piece of cake.

I dug my cell phone out and dialed the hospital, then got connected to admittance.

Please.

Please be Amber.

It was.

"Amber, it's Nick Jonas—"

"Nick! I was so sorry to hear about your hand—"

"Amber, I'm actually calling about work."

"Oh. Okay. What?"

"A Miley Stewart is going to be transferred from St. Clair—"

"Isn't that—"

"Yes."

There was a pause.

"Okay…go on."

"When she gets there, I want her to go straight up to neuro and I want an MRI, immediately."

"Okay…Nick?"

"What?"

"You could…"her voice dropped to a whisper. "This could lose your license. You know that."

"Thanks, Amber," I said, ignoring her warning.

I did know it, it just didn't matter.

I'd give it all up.

I'd give up everything to set this right.

I owed it to Miley.

I flipped my phone shut and shuffled in my glove box for my ID while I drove.

My dad called my phone three times, probably wondering where the hell I was.

I didn't answer.

I got out of my car and took a deep breath before walking in.

There was a young woman at the reception desk, reading a glossy magazine.

"I'm here about a patient transfer," I said, knowing full well she wouldn't have any paperwork on it yet.

"We don't have any scheduled today," she said, not bothering to look up.

"You wouldn't yet. She just checked in. Miley Stewart?"

The woman finally raised her eyes to look at me.

Her round face flushed and a smile tugged at her lips.

Too easy.

I smiled back lazily and she scooted her chair forward, toward me.

"I, um, I don't have anything on that yet," she said, apologetically.

"Well, I suppose you wouldn't, would you?" I asked in a low voice, leaning in to her.

I tossed my ID up on the desk.

"I'd like to see her," I said.

"The psychiatrist hasn't even seen her yet, she hasn't been evaluated, so there's not really much—"

"That's fine," I said.

"Dr. Gerandy won't be available for another hour, but…" she clicked on the mouse in front of her a few times. "Stewart is in 108."

It was so simple.

"An hour?" I asked, glancing at my watch.

"Yeah, she's a bit behind—"

"No problem," I said.

No problem at all, I wouldn't be sticking around for the doctor to doctor consultation anyway.

The girl gave me quick directions to the room and I went to get her.

And it was…easy.

I just opened the door and there she was, sitting on a flimsy, bare bed.

I let the door shut behind me and my hands balled in to fists.

They'd taken her shoelaces.

The clip that had been holding her hair back was gone.

Her eyes were glazed and her mouth was kind of half hanging open.

Well.

They certainly wasted no time passing out the sedatives.

_How_ had it come to this?

How had I _let_ it come to this?

I could drop dead at her feet and it wouldn't be enough to make up for this.

Her dull eyes focused on me.

"Please leave. Now."

My legs almost gave and a thick layer of spit pooled in my mouth due to the bile I felt rising from my stomach. Fuck. Me.


	8. Infallible

**so close, yet so far. thanks all, loving the supportxo**

* * *

Chapter Eight

"I can't," I said simply, when she told me to leave, and it was the truth.

Maybe I should have left.

Maybe I should've walked away weeks ago, she'd have had a better chance…but that was always my problem, wasn't it?

It was the reason she sat here now.

I simply could _not_ walk away from her.

"You should," she whispered, after a quiet moment.

"Miley, I just…can't."

Her eyes swam and her gaze shifted to my forehead.

"You can't…like me very much right now," she said, her voice slow and thick. "Look at you. Look what I've done to you—"

"It was _me_. Listen—"

She put her small hand up, slowly, and I suppose I could have kept talking, bowled right over her, but she looked so out of control and so lost, I just couldn't bring myself to overpower her.

"I can't lay a hand on you again. It'll kill me. I know it will. Every time I look at you, I hate myself more. You're my life. You're the only thing I ever loved, really _loved_, and I ruined you…so, even though…even though it'll kill me to do it, I have to let you go. Because I won't kill both of us."

There was something about her sedative induced monotone voice, something about the hopelessness in her tone that made my eyes water.

Not once in the midst of any of this had I cried.

Not when she screamed that she hated me, not when she used her nails to tear through my skin, not when she kicked, slapped and bit and not when she threw glasses at me or came at me with a scalding curling iron…not even when I held her while she cried.

Thus far, the only thing that bought me to tears was knowing she'd given up on me.

My eyes snapped shut and I remembered back to that first night, when she'd curled up against me and clung on so tight…she was physically _begging_ for me to help her, and I couldn't see that.

For those first few weeks, I was so busy justifying for her, that I never just…helped.

I walked over to the bed and slid my hands under her arms and lifted her to me.

Miley's arms wrapped around my neck.

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Go," she said, but her arms held me tighter.

"I'm sorry," I uttered again, but even as I said it, I knew full absolution would never come.

"Why do you keep saying that? Stop saying that."

"Because. Because it's my fault."

"Don't do that. You're always doing that for me. You're always finding a way to—"

"But I'm not," I said, pulling back.

I needed to look her in the eye when I said this to her.

"Hey, can you look at me?" I asked softly, when her dull gaze couldn't seem to find focus.

Finally, her eyes fell on to mine, but she seemed to see right through me.

What the hell did they have her on?

Didn't matter. I'd say it again. I'd say it every day for the rest of my life if I had to…though they would be the hardest words I'd ever speak.

How do I tell her I ruined her life?

How do I explain that I was so terrified and so confused and so hurt and so in love…that I failed her?

"I did this to you."

Her fingers went to my lips, but I kept talking through them.

"You hit your head, remember? When we were washing the _fucking_ windows? You hit your head…and, baby, that _has_ to be it. I know it…and it's so obvious to me now, but, it just—it wasn't before, and I am so sorry. I just couldn't…see it. And I know it's been hell for you and I know I have no right to expect your trust now, but, I'm asking anyway…because even if after this, if you can't be with me because of what I've done…I still need to get you out of this. I put you here and I'll be damned if I'm not going to get you out—"

"What?"

"Miley, there's no excuse for—"

"Wait. Windows?"

"You had a concussion. I think it's possible that that is when this started."

"But," she shook her head slowly, as if it were too heavy. "Wasn't that way before—"

"Doesn't matter. I think it's probably scar tissue—"

Miley's heavy lids closed and I stopped talking.

"Are you saying….there's a _physical_ reason?"

"Yes."

She was quiet.

"Jesus, have you been…Miley, none of this is your fault. Do you understand that? It's never been your fault," I said, gripping her face. "It's always been mine."

"Why?" she asked, puzzled.

"Because! Because I should've known. I do it for strangers everyday and then, when the single most important thing in my world needs me…I just…I could've _killed_ you, and—"

"S'not your fault."

I bent so we were eye level.

"Do you understand what I'm telling you?" I asked gently.

"Yes…"

"Well, then—"

"Nick…don't…you know, you've always had a God complex."

"What?"

She wasn't making any sense.

"You're not infallible. You're not God and I know that."

"Miley—"

"I was there, too. I know what it was like. There's…there's just no way you could've…there's just no way. You didn't fail at anything Nick. You kept me, even when I was…you held on. You loving me is infallible. I know that."

And she was right.

My intellect, my instincts, my temper, hell, my _sanity_, all failed her, but, my love for her never once did.

I breathed in deeply.

When she was lucid, she might see things differently, but I pushed that aside and kissed her slack lips…grateful that she was near me, grateful that she didn't hate me, like I deserved to be hated.

"You don't want to stay here," I said.

She gave a short shake of her head.

"Can I…can I be helped?"

The truth was, I wasn't sure…but anything had to be better than this.

"We'll know a lot more after the MRI," I said carefully.

Miley said nothing.

"Have you signed anything—other than admittance papers?" I asked, trying to focus on what I had to do.

"I don't—I don't know. I don't think so, I was…it was really bad," she said, quietly, shamefully.

I let my hand stroke her hair and tried to focus on the nagging feeling in the back of my mind.

"Is my Daddy okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, but—wait. Has anyone been in here to talk to you?"

"No…they said soon…evaluate, or—"

Yes.

Suddenly Robby Ray's words from earlier hit me like a ton of bricks.

Just the boyfriend.

Closest living relative.

"Do you trust me?" I asked.

She made an attempt to roll her eyes, but they just kind of floated up.

"Yes."

I took a deep breath.

"I want you to sign medical power of attorney over to me."

I didn't even know if they'd let her, with no evaluation and the sedatives, but I was hedging my bets that the idiot at the front desk was a notary.

Even if they did let her, there's no way it would hold up, but it would buy me time if Robby Ray chose to be difficult.

The idiot at the desk would lose her job, probably along with Amber.

I was already going to lose my medical license and this would probably just guarantee some prison time.

I was already going to burn in hell for everything I'd done…what's one more?

Nothing, if it meant helping her.

"Okay," she said, easily.

"Do you know what that means?" I asked her.

"It means if I'm crazy, you call the shots."

I wouldn't have put it quite like that, but she had the right idea.

"Just…go with whatever I say," I told her.

"Okay."

I tried not to show my astonishment at the level of trust she still had in me, then I led her out of the room.

I flirted _shamelessly_at the front desk for about five minutes before I asked about the MPA.

Pathetically, I prayed Miley's sedative would stave off any jealousy—if she got mad, I'd never get her out of here.

"But, aren't you her doctor?" the desk idiot asked.

"Sure—hey, are you a notary?" I asked quickly, trying to make her lose focus.

"Yes, you kind of have to be here, you know—"

"I figured. So, could you do it then?"

"Well, she hasn't even been evaluated and—"

"Did you call about the transfer yet?" I asked, getting her on a different train of thought.

"Yep. She's all set."

Thank you Amber.

"Good, thank you. So, if we could just do the MPA here, we'll be all set."

"Oh, I can't—"

"What's your name?"

"Carrie," she said, starting to blush.

I leaned in over the desk and grinned.

"Carrie, I've had a long day. The sooner I'm done here, I can just go home…" my eyes floated to her hand.

No ring.

I was about to secure my throne right next to Satan.

"Do you have dinner plans, Carrie?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

She went crimson and smiled.

I watched her open a file drawer near the desk and pull out the MPA form.

She signed and stamped her job away, then took a yellow post it note and scrawled her name and number on it, then stuck it to the MPA.

I winked and grabbed it.

Miley signed her life over to me, Carrie lost her job and I was going to prison.

I got what I wanted.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

On the way to the hospital I told Miley we'd be going straight up to neurology for the MRI, then I tried to explain exactly what I thought was going on. She said nothing, she just held on to my hand in her lap and stared out the window.

My heart was pounding and my stomach was twisting from everything I'd just done…still, I didn't regret any of it.

Just as I thought, Robby Ray, my Dad, Lily, Oliver, Blanda and Joe were there, at the elevators when Miley and I stepped out.

Robby Ray was once again wearing his badge.

They'd already discovered what I'd done.

It would be an official arrest.

Fine…but it would have to wait.

Miley shut her eyes and turned in to me, so her face was pressed in to my side. I put my arm tightly around her and we walked out.

Robby Ray glared at me, then started reading me my rights.

I put a hand up and Robby Ray kept talking.

"Will you just—just let me get her in there, Robby? I'm right. I'm so right about this. As soon as she's in there, I'll come out and you can—"

"No," her voice was muffled and soft in my shirt.

"Forget it, Nick. Your Dad will—"

"Dad—" Miley began.

"Nobody's going to upset her," my Dad said, and everyone went silent.

Robby Ray's face puckered…but he knew my father was right.

Miley broke away from me and wrapped her arms around her Dad.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she whispered.

He stared down at the top of her head and started breathing hard as he held her tight.

"I want to see Nick when I get out," she said.

He was silent.

I moved to lead her in, but my father put a hand on my arm.

"I can't let you," he said, apologetically.

I nodded, not surprised.

I'd broken the code of ethics, probably several HIPPA laws, and a few others, I'm sure.

I didn't work here, anymore…but I'd gotten her here, and would simply have to be enough.

I kissed her forehead and cupped her face.

Her hands clamped around my wrists.

"Thank you," she whispered, and I felt like dying.

_Thank you._

Then she was gone.

Joe winced in pain as he took a seat, then glared up at me.

I turned my head.

I hadn't even begun to deal with that guilt yet.

I looked at Robby Ray.

I owed him justification.

"She didn't need to just sit in there," I said, quietly. "I just couldn't leave her there. Not when I—"

"But for two months you could just ignore—"

"I just didn't see it…you should know, I had her sign over her medical power of attorney to me. I know it won't hold up, but, it's just something else to add to your list. I lied, to get her out of there and I had help. But you shouldn't—you should leave them alone. They were clueless, I lied to them, too. I'll take whatever their consequences are, they didn't know, so…"

"You manipulative son of a bitch," Robby Ray spat, shaking his head.

I saw Lily wince out of the corner of my eye.

"I had to do it," I shrugged, speaking to all of them.

It was quiet while we waited.

I leaned against the wall, no one spoke to me…no one spoke at all.

At some point, my Dad passed by and said the MRI was done, and Miley had fallen asleep.

Then we waited longer, for the report.

It felt like hours, it may have been. I couldn't tell.

When Miley woke up, she asked to see me and I went to her, with Robby Ray by my side.

I held her hand, Robby Ray held her other one, then I had to let go—it felt like we were ripping her in two.

It was quiet until she spoke.

"Dad, I want Nick to have full power of attorney."

"Miley, what I did was—" she cut me off.

"I know what you did. I signed it anyway. I'll even resign it, now that the sedation wore off. I want—"

"Miles, let's not think about that right now—"

"No. What if something…I want him to have it."

And because he didn't have the heart to tell her I was going to prison and would be useless anyway, Robby Ray relented and we got the paperwork from downstairs.

Miley read it, then requested the revisions I didn't even know she knew existed.

I stared at the revision, trying to see what she was thinking.

She had given me…everything.

She didn't trust Robby Ray.

She didn't trust him not to commit her somewhere, against her will. She wanted to do this before the MRI results got back, in case I was wrong. In case…she couldn't be helped at all.

I signed, Miley signed…and it was easily done.

Too easy.

I should've seen it coming.

Soon after, my Dad returned with Dr. Clearwater, head of neurology.

And then, they told us.

"Nicholas, in short, was right. The concussion caused scar tissue, which has grown over time. The scarring has distorted your brain's pathways. The amygdale," Dr. Clearwater explained, lightly touching Miley's forehead, "has been damaged, as has part of your prefrontal cortex. Bella, your emotional center can't pick up what reactions your brain is sending. We're not sure why, but these cases usually do manifest themselves in violence. Though, sudden outbursts of laughter or crying are certainly possible, too. You see—"

"I don't—I just want to know if it can be fixed," she said.

"The scar tissue has grown a lot."

I felt a pang.

Last month, it wouldn't have been so bad, if I would've just…

I took her hand in mine and held it too tight, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Can it be fixed?" she asked again.

"It's possible. But the surgery isn't without risks."

"Risks?" Robby Ray asked.

"Standard surgery risks, of course…however, with the extent of the scarring, it's—"

"Could it kill me?"

My heart stopped and I heard a whoosh of air leave Robby Ray's lungs.

"Yes."

"Is it probable?"

"I wouldn't say probable. I'd say the risks are higher, though. Miley, this can be partially controlled with medication—"

"Doesn't scar tissue just…keep growing?"

"Miley, you've had an exhausting day. We're going to send you home and see you back here tomorrow at seven A.M. for a full consult. We'll discuss the options, all of them, in depth," Dr. Clearwater said, then walked out.

Miley rested a hand on my cast and looked up at me.

"I'm doing it."

My eyes widened.

"No. No way. You heard him, medication can help. You're tired and—"

"Nicholas. I'm doing it."

"Mi, no, you—"

"Daddy."

My eyes locked with Robby Ray's.

"I'll drop all of the charges if you put that MPA to good use. Don't let her do it."

My stomach clenched and Miley's eyes shot up to me, horrified.

"Robby Ray, she's mentally sound, I can't—"

"Is she, though?" he asked, pointedly.

Then, because she knew what he was doing, and because it pissed her off and her sedative had long worn off, Miley picked up the phone receiver by the side of her bed and whipped it at her father's face…proving his point and putting herself at my mercy.


End file.
